


Trans-Ler

by LizLuvsCupcakes



Category: The Lorax (2012)
Genre: Cursed, Doctor is my OC, Found Family, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Open to criticism, The Once-ler is trans, Trans Character, Trans Male Character, Transphobia, his family is mentioned but like, idk if they’re gonna be here, off on a magical journey, oh my god why am I writing this, trans escapism, unsafe binding, we’ll see what happens
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-28
Updated: 2020-11-28
Packaged: 2021-03-09 20:41:15
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,431
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27752467
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LizLuvsCupcakes/pseuds/LizLuvsCupcakes
Summary: A seventeen-year-old young man escapes his abusive family to live in the woods with his mule. But he doesn’t count on meeting a menagerie of new friends that definitely find him annoying, no really
Relationships: The Once-Ler & OC, The Once-ler & the Lorax
Comments: 14
Kudos: 28





	Trans-Ler

**Author's Note:**

> Why did I write this? Why am I posting it for you to read?? Why did you click on it?!?!?
> 
> Oh well. I hope you enjoy. I’m open to criticism on how to best write the trans experience, so tell me what I did wrong or right and I’ll do my best (:

He’d imagined this night so many times. Planned for it for months. Years, in fact. Since he’d first been slapped for asking why he couldn’t wear pants or when his mother had screamed when he'd tried to cut his hair. He’d known he couldn’t stay, couldn’t be happy here, as long as he’d known that the face that looked at him every time he glanced in a mirror wasn’t his. 

He’d gone over and over and over the plan. His bag, packed with only things he wanted to take with him, was on top of his guitar (something his mother had only allowed to shut him up) and the only things he’d have to define himself by would be the clothes on his back and the scissors he’d stolen from his mothers sewing box. 

The waiting was the worst of it. 

This wasn’t something you could plan a date for. Well maybe you could, but that was too risky. His plans were written things, things that could be discovered, laughed at, get him ridiculed and mocked, or worst yet, locked in his bedroom with no reasonable hope of escape. 

No, he’d just had to wait. A night would come, he promised himself, and then you’ll know it’s time to leave. 

And come it did. His uncle came home from town one day with several large bottles, dozens of them, eagerly shouting about how some liquor store or another had been going broke. His mother, his aunt and even the twins all drank as if the world ended outside, and he… he didn’t dare risk it. He made one last check. Made sure everything was in place. Made sure the note said everything it had to. Had his route planned out for how to get out of this town.

And now their snores were heavy, and their breaths were deep inside their chests, as they lay either strewn about the house or haphazardly in their beds. 

He took a deep breath and slowly, very slowly and carefully, got up out of bed, clad in shoes and socks, jacket covering the one dress he didn’t despise (a grey thing with black buttons and a black skirt) and slowly, very deliberately, he made his way into the bathroom.

The note was in his left pocket. The scissors were in his right. He didn’t dare turn the light on for fear of the ancient electrical wiring waking someone. 

Instead he stared at the face he hated in the mirror. The one his mother professed to love, but would scream and lash out at when she dared act in any way she deemed inappropriate or immodest. He touched his hair, burning with… something. Something he couldn’t identify. Longing? Did he want her here? No. How many times had she touched his hair over the course of his life? Either grabbing it to drag him away from the twins or stroking it while ranting about how pretty it was. Those times always felt… complicated. 

Was it sorrow? Was he sad to be butchering his hair? It couldn’t be. His hair didn’t mean anything. It never meant who he was, never in the way his mother insisted. She always went on about how a lady’s hair was integral to who she was. 

“But who _am_ I?!” He asked as soon as he was able to understand what he was asking. 

The only answer he’d ever gotten was a half-gentle tug through his hair, and a sweet “you’re my little Loretta, silly,” as she’d continue brushing, braiding, lavishing his hair with attention. Affection. Love that never seemed to reach the rest of him.

It was then he recognized the feeling. Jealousy. 

He was _jealous_ of his hair. 

His mother had loved the idea of him more than him. She had loved his _hair_ more than she loved him. 

It made him mad enough to murder. 

So, as the girl in the mirror stared back at him with a twin expression of rage, indignant tears streaming down both their faces, he reached up and grabbed a good sized tuft of it. 

_Snict_

He was holding a large clump of hair in his hand now, with his bangs now falling over his face, which only grew more intense by the second. One of the longer bits this time, he pulled it taut and went in near the base. _Snict_.

He didn’t know when he began mumbling, but he registered it as he was reaching around to get at the stuff in the back. 

“This is what you did.” _Snict._ “This is what you did.” _Snict._ “This is what you did, _you_ did, _you_ did.” _Snict. Snict. Snict._

He didn’t know how long he was standing there. But he knew that when he looked up, his eyes adjusted to the dark, his hair was now slightly shaggy and a bit ragged, but otherwise short. At _least_ it was short. 

And now it littered the floor, the sink, the counter, everything. 

He thought about trying to cram it down the drain, but without turning on the water and awakening the demon that lived in the plumbing system, that was a no-go. Instead, he gathered up most of it and stuffed it in his pockets, leaving a few stray clumps in the sink where they had fallen. 

Finally, he stole back to the bedroom he’d slept in for seventeen years, gathered his meager belongings, and crept down the stairs. Ignoring the twins where they lay, carefully stepping over the bum step, he crept to the dining room, where the back door was… and where his mother was asleep. 

He felt a knot in his throat. He was really doing this. It wasn’t some deprived, desperate fantasy anymore. It was really happening. He reached into his pocket and gently lay the note down beside her hand. 

“Goodbye mom,” he said in a voice so soft it could’ve been a breath. 

She didn’t reply. He didn’t wait for one. 

Melvin’s paddock was exactly where it had always been. The hushed, hurried pace from the steps to the gate was no longer than it had always been. But with his heart in his ears, the _I have come too far to lose now, I am_ going _to do this_ burning in his chest, it seemed to take forever. 

“Shh,” he whispered as he guided Melvin out to the wagon, the poor old thing in a sleepy daze. “We gotta go buddy.”

Melvin grunted, but was thankfully silent as he hitched him up. 

He drove his mule out fifty miles. Then another fifty. On and on, until the sun was beginning to rise, and only when they approached the spring that had been on his map did he allow the poor thing to stop and rest. 

“Sorry buddy,” he said as Melvin drank. “I couldn’t risk them waking up.”

Melvin bleated irritably, but there seemed to be no serious hard feelings as he scratched behind his ears. 

He sighed and looked down into the water as Melvin drank. “Oh. Oh god. That’s- that is… oof.” 

There had been a definite downside to cutting his hair in a dark bathroom in a frenzy. He tried his best to clean himself up while Melvin slept. 

~~~

“Do you think they’ve found my hair by now?” He asked Melvin as he watched some bunnies scamper by. 

Melvin didn’t reply. 

“Cuz I bet if they have, it’s like- y’know, we’re far enough out now that they’re not gonna find us, but it’s something to think about.”

“Heehaaaaaaw!!!”

“No, I actually _don’t_ know where we’re going, I assumed I’d either be confined to my room forever or dead by now. So… just jot that down.”

They travelled. And travelled. And travelled. 

“Melvin, look, I’m playing my guitar- _aack!!_ Okay, this isn’t gonna work. Gimme a sec here.”

The townspeople in that one store weren’t nearly as weird as he thought they’d be about a pretty girl with butchered hair buying men’s clothes for no man. He liked that. And they sold him a weird cottage-in-a-bottage that apparently came with all the living amenities one would need to set up a home just about anywhere. These purchases took out a good chunk of the money he’d been stealing, but they were worth it. 

“So here’s what I’m gonna do, I’m gonna keep the vest, and the skirt, I’m just gonna toss that when we get there. Wherever ‘there’ is.”

The desert was vast. And massive. And vast. 

_“Look, it’s, some circle-ing birds, I bet you that they’re going to EAT OUR CORPSES~”_

He was glad he’d bought the marshmallows. 

“ _Na, na, nananana~”_

Well he hoped Melvin was entertained. 

Eventually the adrenaline high wore off and the next thing he knew, he was asleep. Well he _was,_ until Melvin kicked him awake. 

“Look I told you, I’ll know when we get the- oh…”

And that’s when he saw it. Saw where they were. 

The valley Melvin had brought him to was a beautiful, lush, green thing with sparkling blue rivers and endless skies, dotted with little white clouds. 

And the trees! Trees as far as the eye could see. Tall, as high as houses, and the tufts, so bright and pretty even from here, looked so incredibly soft, so pillowy and heavenly, like all your eight year old fantasies about what a cloud must feel like come to life. 

He nearly sobbed. “This- this is the most beautiful place I have ever…”

And then the fish started singing. 

Humming fish!! And over there, brown barbaloots, eating fruits from the wonder trees and doing whatever it was they did as birds flew overhead. 

“This!!” He riffed on his guitar as he, for the first time that day, dared to hope. “This is the place!! Exactly what I need! I’m gonna- oh! Oh no! No no no!”

At this exact moment, the skirt he’d cut away from his new vest was taken by the wind, the hair he’d stuffed in a satchel thankfully not going with it. He couldn’t explain the sudden terror as he raced to get it. 

“No no no no no no-! Oh! Oh.” 

The last came when a bird caught it and flew down to him, giving it back to him. It waited for him to take it before letting go. 

“Uh… thanks?”

It honked back at him. 

“Hang on. I’ve got something for you.”

He walked to the back of his cart and took out one of the bags of marshmallows. With significant effort, it burst open, and he was able to produce one for his new friend. 

And then he had ten new friends looking at him expectantly. 

“Okay. That’s how it is, huh?”

As he fed junk food to forest animals, he couldn’t help but feel a bit foolish. Not for the marshmallows but for the skirt. For chasing after the lower half of a butchered dress like his life depended on it. 

He wanted rid of the damn thing. And he wanted rid of the pile of hair cluttering up his meager possessions.

And he knew exactly how to take care of both those problems. 

It took wandering around a bit before he decided on which tree he’d use. The one he found was old. Its bark was nowhere near as white as the others, though the tufts looked just as pillowy and soft. It didn’t seem to have any fruit on it. 

“Alright,” he breathed, pulling up his gloves. “Everybody back up.”

A few swift swings of his ax later, the tree was down. The noise must have startled the animals, because they were gone, but they’d be back, he assured himself as he set up his cottage. They always came when you fed them. 

He was stripping the tufts from the bark, considering what to do with them when he noticed someone was holding onto the bit of tuft he was holding. 

“Hey!”

He screamed and jumped back from the little orange… _thing_ that was glowering at him with a vengeance. 

“Did you chop down this tree?”

He looked at his gloves. He looked at the ax. He looked back at the thing. 

“What is this, a trick question?”

The thing growled. 

“Leave! Vacate the premises! Take your ax and _get out!!”_ It demanded. 

Now, normally he would’ve found this funny. Maybe a little curious at most. But today? Today he’d just found the place he’d been looking for for days, and he was not about to hitch Melvin up for another adventure to nowhere. 

“No,” he said firmly.

The thing looked shocked. Spluttered incoherently. “Whaddya _mean,_ ‘no’?!”

“No. I’m not going anywhere. I’m sorry about the tree if that’s important but I’m not leaving.”

He picked up his bag of tuft then, tied it off and tossed it aside, wherein he began filling another one (and wondering why this cottage came pre-stocked with burlap sacks). The little guy continued staring at him, then became irate at the drop of a hat. 

“You little-!! I oughta-!! That’s it!”

The thing raced to the temporary pegs that would hold his cottage in place until he could get proper supports in place. And with a kick, it came up. 

He cried out and raced over. This culminated in a weird game in which he chased the little thing around his house in circles, until he caught it and held it off the ground. 

“Stop that!!” He demanded when he caught it. “Who do you think you are?!”

It looked hurt. “I’m the Lorax!” There was a beat. “Guardian of the forest? I speak for the trees!”

He shook his head. 

The Lorax looked annoyed as he put him down. “So you’re telling me you didn’t see me just appear out of that stump?”

“Sorry.”

“Typical kids,” he scoffed. “Whatever- you listen to me you little tree chopping brat, I speak for the trees, and on behalf of the trees, SCRAM.”

Okay. This was just unfair. 

“I chopped down exactly one tree! And you don’t even know why I’m here!”

“Same reason humans always come here.”

“You’re wrong. And I’m gonna stay here as long as I want. Not. Going. Anywhere!”

With that, he turned and went into his cottage with his bags full of tufts, promising he’d finish the task later-

“Then you leave me no choice,” said the Lorax. “If you are not gone by the time the sun sets on this valley-”

“How did you get in here?”

“... if you are not _gone._ By the time the sun _sets._ On this _valley.”_ The Lorax went on, annoyed at having been interrupted, “all the forces of nature will be unleashed upon you and curse you until the end of your days. You have been warned.”

“So… what, you’re gonna spend my life pranking me? I have two brothers, I can handle it.”

The Lorax looked even more irritated. More so when he had to wait for him to let him back out. 

~~~

Chopping wood was a good project for when one was angry, he reflected. There was something immensely satisfying in the whole process overall. Or maybe that was the prospects of what would transpire with this wood he’d cut that night. His blood pumped like liquid metal as he lifted his ax and swung it down, over and over again, splitting the felled tree first into logs and then those logs into split logs. He had way too much wood by the time he was done, but that wasn’t important. He had enough for what he needed. 

He turned to a nearby bush. “Hey, Mr. Lorax!”

No response.

“C’mon, I know you’re in there.”

An orange head poked itself out of the bush. “What?”

“Is a speaker-of-the-grass gonna come up and yell at me if I dig a fire pit over by the river?”

He stared at him, one yellow, bushy eyebrow raised accusingly. 

“I don’t wanna start a forest fire.”

The Lorax said nothing at first, not directly to him, just grumbled a bit. Most of it sounded like jibberish, but he thought he caught, “ _Now_ he asks permission,” before the Lorax waved irritably with a, “go ‘head, go ‘head, knock yourself out.”

“Thank you.” That settled, he dragged his ax over to said river and set to the less anger-managing work of building a fire pit. 

At least this gave him time to think. Time for an emotion he hadn’t considered yet to settle in: fear. 

He’d waited until the dead of night. Had left a note asking to be left alone and telling them not to worry, but since when had they listened to him? Over script or in person? They’d tracked through sand and mud and snow and so much stuff it’d be so easy to track them. Were they following him? Were they close?

He found himself jumping at every little noise at that happy thought. Even one of the little barbaloots that brought him a rock for his pit. 

“Thanks, little buddy.” 

It looked at him expectantly. 

He rewarded it with a tiny marshmallow. 

Evening was still hours away, so he killed time deciding what would be going on the pyre. The skirt? Absolutely. The hair? That would be the first to go. 

Harder was stuffed at the bottom of the bag. To be honest he’d forgotten he’d packed it. 

A framed photograph of the family. Just after dad left. Mom, his aunt, his uncle, the twins, and Loretta. Her long hair was tied in twin braids with pale blue ribbons, and she’d been wearing a denim dress that went down to her knees. You couldn’t see them in the photo but her striped stockings had faded with washing, her black shoes scuffed beyond polishing. Mom had a hold of her, one hand on her head and one on her shoulder, he remembered her fake nails that she’d kept on for months dug into his flesh and left marks that wouldn’t come out. Different than when the twins roughhoused somehow. 

She was smiling in the photo. He furrowed his brow at her. He could’ve torn her out, he considered, she was positioned in such a way that it wouldn’t take too much of mom with her, but then, did he even want mom there? But for some reason the idea of throwing the photo itself in the flames was nearly unbearable. 

It was at least three-quarters of an hour of pondering, and evening was almost upon him when he decided that this, this last reminder of Loretta, could exist. He didn’t know if it was because he wanted Loretta to have existed, even if he felt like he was murdering her for stealing so much time that should have been his, or if it was because he wanted to pretend the smiling family in the photo was real. 

Whatever the case, it went back into the bag, face down, and his jacket, toothbrush and comb went over it. 

Starting the fire was the hard part. Shredding logs for kindling with a combination of rocks, a stolen pen knife and your own hands was… difficult, to say the least. But thankfully, the matches he’d brought were (usably) dry to the point where, by the time the moon was fully visible and a few stars were daring to peek out, he had a raging little inferno going. 

He sat on the grass, sighing softly as he fidgeted with the skirt in his hands. Screwing up his face, he flung it into the flames, where it lay in a heap and thankfully didn’t smother the flames. It wasn’t in there for five minutes before he was frantically tearing at the pockets of his jacket and throwing fistfuls of black hair into the fire. 

Even he couldn’t understand his own frantic mumblings this time. Half gasping, half raging he threw fistful after fistful of Loretta and everything she was that he wasn’t into the flames, hating that his eyes burned as he did so. 

“I hate you,” he said quietly. “I hate you, Loretta, I hate you.”

Loretta didn’t say anything back. She never did. 

“Loretta,” he whispered as he watched the two things his mother had loved most about him curl into cinder, “you’re not even real.”

He stared into the fire as it burned, trying to convince himself that that was why his eyes hurt. That the smoke was making his nose sting. Nothing more. 

It was several minutes before the Lorax finally approached. He looked nervous, uncomfortable, like he was worried he might be the next to go into the fire if he didn’t choose his words very very carefully.

“... uh, you wanna tell me what the heck that was?”

“Doesn’t matter. It’s over now. Your trees are safe.”

There was a pause. “... so, uh…” he uncomfortably coughed. “What’s your name, Beanpole?”

His heart stopped at the same time his stomach sunk. “My name?”

“Yeah. Unless you prefer ‘Beanpole.’”

Oh _friiiick_ fracker, how had he not thought of that? (And why was he still afraid to use swear words, it wasn’t like he’d get told off). He’d spent so much time focused on the fact that he was not Loretta that he’d completely forgotten to address who he actually was. And worse yet, he hadn’t even considered what his name could possibly be. 

“Uh…”

Okay, _think_ idiot. And whatever you pick, do it _quick_ , cuz he’s starting to stare, and oh god, it’s not like you can’t change it later, you did it once you’ll do it again, right? But all the masculine names he could think of had seemingly fled his brain as fast as the Swammy-Swans fled the smoke of his fire. And for some reason, the only name that came to mind was the stage name he’d wanted to use if his singing career ever got off the ground, the one the twins had mocked him mercilessly for but was still better than telling this thing his name was what it wasn’t. 

“You can call me The Once-Ler,” he blurted. 

“Wait, what?”

“You can call me The Once-Ler.” He’d made his decision, he was going with it. At least for now. 

“‘ _The Once-Ler’_? Th- that’s your name, is-is-is The Once-Ler?”

“Sure.”

“Like, on your birth certificate it says-“

“ _How ‘bout we don’t talk about my name._ ” 

The Lorax wisely let the subject drop. “Okay, Mr…. ‘The Once-Ler.’ You’re really not here to chop down my trees, are you?”

“No, I’m really not. I’m sorry about this one, though.”

The Lorax grunted. “So what are you doing here?”

“I… ran away.”

“Figures. Taxes? The government? The mob? You didn’t kill someone, did you? They deserve it?”

“No! I- I ran away from my family.”

The Lorax and The Once-Ler sat there, side by side as the fire crackled merrily and the burning hair smell slowly faded. 

“Are you… burning hair?”

“Yes.”

“... you sure you didn’t kill someone?”

The Once-Ler thought for a moment. “... kind of? But not really.” _Please be a bit more vague,_ ~~_Loretta_~~ _Once-Ler._

The Lorax screwed up his brow, then relaxed in realization. “Ohhhh! Oh it’s _yours!_ Heh heh heh, makes sense. Hey, this something the kids are doin’ these days, it supposed to look like that?”

Okay, so maybe it still didn’t look _great_ since his bathroom adventure. “No. This was an accident.”

“An accident? With what, a weed whacker?”

“Something like that.” He stood up. “I’m gonna try to actually eat some of my marshmallows. Want one?”

There was something bizarre and morbid about roasting marshmallows over the fires he was using to destroy the thing he’d unrealistically managed to escape. And there was something very weird about sharing roasted marshmallows with a little orange peanut that didn’t like him much. 

“... But, seriously? You’re, gonna do something about…” he gestured to his head. “ _That_ situation. Aren’t you?”

The Once-Ler ran a hand over his hair, half defensive and half affronted. “It is _not_ that bad.”

“Don’t kid yourself.”

“It’s not. Besides it’s not that big a deal.”

“I saw ya burning it, kid. Nobody who burns something like that doesn’t care about it.”

“Even if I did, _which I do not_ , I barely plan on leaving unless I have to. You’re the only one who’s going to see it.”

“What’d I do to deserve this?”

He made a face. The Lorax made a face. 

Well, in honesty, the Lorax wasn’t the _only_ person who’d see him like this. He’d see himself now, every time he looked in the mirror. Or, pond? Did his cottage have a mirror? He’d have to look. 

Eventually, the Lorax fell asleep by what was left of the fire, which was now just a pile of dimly glowing embers. The Once-Ler (he hoped that didn’t stick) stood slowly, as if trying not to wake him, and crept back to the cottage that may or may not have had a mirror. 

It did. And he wished it didn’t. 

All right, maybe it wasn’t perfect. Or pretty. Or even remotely resembling anything any reasonable, rational person would walk around looking like. It was… longer, sure, but letting it grow over the course of his trip hadn’t helped in the way he’d hoped. 

It was… a mess. There was no way around it. He’d butchered his hair. In trying to murder Loretta he’d left a hacked up, devastated mess in her wake that he’d now have to deal with. 

Fingers halfheartedly touching his poor, destroyed hair, he reached for the sewing scissors, and… immediately felt like crying. He didn’t want to start over again. Not when all his efforts had gotten him was a choppy, uneven mess that only the hat he’d bought could save. 

He cringed away from his reflection, blinking hard, and covered the mirror with his jacket. It was all there was for now. He’d… he’d deal with this in the morning. This was some major procrastination of a serious problem, but he’d deal with that later too. 

Convincing himself he wasn’t minutes from crying about hair he didn’t care about, he crawled into bed and somehow drifted off. 

~~~

Convincing the kid he’d fallen asleep had been the easy part. Apparently that was as easy as lying still with his eyes closed. He didn’t even need to keep them closed as he walked back into the weird portable house thing. 

The Once-Ler (an obviously fake name, but he couldn’t refute it) didn’t even notice when he had stolen the comb from his bag, and crawled up to his bedroom window and watched him examine the damage. Watched as the kid nearly fell apart over what he’d done to himself. 

Yes, he thought half-sarcastically, exactly Beanpole, it was _really bad_. 

But for some reason, he didn’t feel the same mix of spite and petty pleasure he did when he normally watched humans who’d cut down one of his trees suffer. Rather, he felt… weird. 

It was a very peculiar sensation, like he was watching a barbaloot fail to understand the basic concept of gravity as it dropped the same fruit over and over, or a swammy-swan abruptly realize it couldn’t swim. Which was odd. Those feelings were for creatures of the forest. Creatures he was in charge of. This kid (oh _god_ , put them _down_ , don’t try it _again. Thank_ you.) most definitely didn’t count. 

As he watched the kid curl up in the bed and drift off, he considered a few things. The fact that he really didn’t know enough about this kid to properly curse him, for one. The fact that the kid was gonna be representing his trees in town if he was planning to sell the wood, and that he’d have to look at this, day in and day out if he was really planning on staying here. 

It was the last that got him spurred into action. 

He wished he could summon the lightning and thunder and stuff whenever he wanted, because it would’ve been helpful to teleport into the kids house through a tea kettle or something. As it were, he just had to wait for the kid to drift off, then crawl in through a window to the mirror. 

Picking up the abandoned scissors, he weighed them, eyed them critically. They were all wrong, but they’d do. He snuck over to the kids bed, and leaned over his sleeping form. He looked so peaceful, freckles just barely visible in the moonlight. But he could see the damage clear as day. 

_Okay Lorax. No pressure, but if you make a noise, hit a snag or do anything at all, you run the risk of waking him up and ruining your plan._

That happy thought aside, he set to work. Slow. Deliberate. Careful. Quiet. Every time the kid moved, sighed, grunted or mumbled, he froze between continuing and dashing for the window. A few little humming fish took pity on him at some point and took on the duty of humming the kid back to sleep every time he got close to waking up. 

It was harrowing work. Especially waiting for him to roll over to do the other side. But every slow, deliberate snip brought him closer to something slightly acceptable. At least bearable to look at. 

At last, he had results he was pleased with. And carefully, he slipped the scissors into The Once-Ler’s hand and crept away. 

The plan was for the kid to see his handiwork, see the scissors in his hand and assume he’d sleepwalked (sleepcut?) his way to something decent. Would this work?

He had no idea. He was exhausted. It had been a long, confusing day full of humans that didn’t cower before him, dead trees and half answered questions, and (once he’d admired his own handiwork a bit) if he was honest, sleep sounded very nice right now. 

~~~

The Once-Ler’s dreams were restless. Full of lying in dead grass. And when they ended, he woke to the feeling of something cold and hard in his grasp. And the odd feeling that the “lying in something itchy” hadn’t stopped. 

He opened one eye and groaned. The Lorax had clearly made good one his promise to curse him, because he was lying in a scattering of hair, clutching his mother’s (or were they his now?) sewing scissors. 

“Dammit, dammit, _dammit_ , son of a whore,” he found himself mumbling, every worst case scenario running through his head. Not that it mattered of course. It was just hair. He didn’t care that much. Right?

Right?

… getting up. That had to happen. He had to survey the damage. He stood, approached the mirror he’d covered the previous night, and braced himself with a stealing breath. It couldn’t be that bad. It wouldn’t be worse. Whatever it was, it couldn’t be worse. 

He ripped the covering away. 

And froze.

It wasn’t worse. It wasn’t even bad. It even looked… hm. Somewhat decent. Like something he’d have done if he’d had the skills or knowledge. He couldn’t help the smile that crept onto his face and stayed there as he fidgeted with it. Short, fluffy, and almost… well, boyish. 

He played with it a bit more as his heart leapt over and over, unable to contain his grin anymore as he slipped into the clothes he’d bought. 

If you didn’t notice (ahem) the obvious, and if his brother’s, mother’s and aunt’s teasing held true, _nobody_ would, he’d have looked just like a normal dude. The very thought filled him with sheer delight.

Something orange and furry ducked out of sight by his window. 

He tilted his head around slightly. His smile melted into a sly, knowing thing. “Hey. Did you do this?”

The Lorax was quiet. Then he said, “no.”

“Really? Then who did?”

“Eh… maybe you did?”

“I did.”

“Yeah. Maybe you just-?”

“I don’t sleepwalk.”

The Lorax was silent. “... you don’t?”

“Nope. Never have.”

“... uh… then maybe… maybe it was God.”

“God has taste in hair?”

“Uh- I mean- maybe it was the devil?”

“... so let me get this right. Either God or the devil objected to my hair choice so strongly they fixed it themselves in the night?”

“... yes?”

The Once-Ler was quiet. Then he let out a breath through his nose. “Sure,” he agreed with a shrug. “Right. I’ll be selling wood. You just do your tree guardian duties. Whatever those are.”

The Lorax grumbled, as The Once-Ler loaded up Melvin with his goods and made his way to town. Clearly they had work to do. But, it was work he’d need to do if he was going to be living out here. 

**Author's Note:**

> You’re still here? You didn’t snap back to lucidity yet? Well... all right. I don’t think I have either, so I’ll try to have something new up soon-ish.


End file.
